


Prologue

by the_bumbly_bee



Series: The Kids Are All Right [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff, Happy, lowkey
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-11
Updated: 2017-07-11
Packaged: 2018-11-30 19:41:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11470368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_bumbly_bee/pseuds/the_bumbly_bee
Summary: It took them a while, but in the end they got there. That's all that matters.





	Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This has been in my head since 2012. Enjoy.

It seemed both an undeniable and unchangeable fact that as far as the Holmeses were concerned, their family tree would end with Mycroft and Sherlock Holmes.

   It was logical enough, really. Both brothers were certifiable geniuses, truly a breed apart. As such, their intellect would encourage them - demand, even - to pursue careers that would challenge their mental and physical strengths. And preferably ones in the service of a worthy cause. 

   The Holmeses, you see, had a rather strange complex about them. They believed that a person gifted with an intelligent brain should want to strive to better the world - and why _shouldn't_ they? This calling was the charge of the House of Holmes, and it was not to be taken lightly.  
   Mycroft's summons was for the service of Queen and Country; protect the Royal Family, protect her people, and make sure that all the doors of the British Empire are locked and bolted against unwelcome intruders. Sherlock's call-to-arms was the pursuit of the truth - or rather, the many truths; detective work seemed the best fit for his insatiably curious mind.  
   Indeed, one only needed to watch the Brothers Holmes in their habitats to conclude that neither had the time - nor the interest - in settling down and having a family.

   It was a disheartening reality for their parents, certainly.

   The Holmeses were descendants of a house that traversed generations back into England's long and colorful history. They were a noble lineage, proud in their culture of erudition. But - as with all things - Time was making an example of this illustrious house; Time was appointing Siger and Lydia Holmes to be the witnesses of the end of a bloodline.  
   For Lydia, it was a matter of happiness - _true_ happiness - and fulfillment in life; what woman didn't long to see the love that blossomed within her to guide her children? What mother didn't want to see the wellspring of emotion (of sentiment) that brought them to life in the first place, comfort them in their lifetime?  
   For Siger, it was a matter of familial duty and pride; what man didn't want to carry his Name forward, to grow the legend his ancestors had forged from the fire's of their nation's power? What father didn't want to see his children, his _legacies_ , mold their own successors and impart them with remarkable stories worthy of leaving behind?

   Yet as their children grew bigger, their hopes of continuing the Holmes name shrunk ever smaller. For what were a man and woman's desire for their children compared to the sovereign control of the universe? Of _fate_?. 

   In the beginning, it seemed that Mycroft would be the one to shoulder the responsibility of producing heirs, seeing as he was the elder child, and therefore the next patriarch of the family. This ultimately proved not to be the case. The day Mycroft Holmes pledged his undivided service to the British Empire and his unwavering loyalty to the Crown was the day the Holmeses had lost their successor. The kind of lifestyle that Mycroft's position would require of him had no room for a wife and family, that much was clear. 

   So they turned to Sherlock. 

   Holmes the Younger, as some would refer to him. The _kind_ one. Gentle in nature, remarkable in intelligence, and the one who had a refreshing passion for life. William Sherlock Scott Holmes; the little boy who was the apple of his mother's eye, and the one who could do no wrong because he was just so _good_. 

   Of course, this description of character had applied to Sherlock _before_. 

   Before Siger Holmes had said too much - or rather, had not said enough, becoming the kind of father he never wanted to be. 

   Before his mother routinely missed all the warning signs, and all her son's pleas for " _help_ ". 

   Before the third Holmes - for there was another, one who was _long_ forgotten - had so emotionally destroyed him that he turned his back on sentiment. 

   And before Mycroft had cast aside the mantle of family that he should've upheld, leaving his family - his brother - behind to deal with the fallout. 

   Once upon a lifetime ago, Sherlock Holmes was not a person that was detached to the world; his heart was not a heavily guarded and impenetrable fortress, fitted with all kinds of locks and bolts. But that was a long time ago. The Sherlock of today was a cold, almost mechanical man who let no one into his heart (because he still had one, despite whatever he said) and therefore was a man who also lacked space for any meaningful relationship. 

   So they turned to themselves, defeated. 

   Siger and Lydia Holmes surrendered to reality, taking refuge in their work and - eventually - retirement. Mycroft became the living embodiment of the British Government, his time spent ensuring the safety and security of the Commonwealth; Sherlock became - inarguably - the world's greatest Consulting Detective, adopting Dr. John Watson somewhere along the way. The Holmeses went on living their lives, separate, detached.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

   Of course, no one took into account the variable that was one James Moriarty - indisputable genius, powerfully persuasive actor, and criminal mastermind extraordinaire ("Jim", he'd insist).  
Few - those few who were terribly perceptive - could have predicted that Moriarty's obsession with the Game, his desire to defeat his equal, would be the very thing that'd bring about his demise.

   But no one (save perhaps the man himself) could've possibly guessed that when Jim Moriarty decided to cross the paths of Irene Adler and Sherlock Holmes, he'd unite two of the world's loneliest souls - a pair of exceedingly _exceptional_ minds - and give them the very thing they'd danced around their entire lives.

   (Nevermind the fact that it would also trigger the chain reaction of events that, in the fullness of time, would lead to the end of his global empire).

   With the Woman, Sherlock Holmes had gained the one thing he could only ever dream of: a true equal. And his equal Irene Adler was, in all senses of the word. Somehow, she both challenged _and_ complemented his entire being.  
   Where Sherlock was cerebrally proficient, Irene Adler was equally emotionally dexterous. Where the Consulting Detective understood well how people worked, the Dominatrix excelled at _manipulating_ that knowledge to her advantage. What seemed an impossible match proved to be a most harmonious alliance. 

   But before the two could truly fit together, walls had to be broken; trust had to be earned; _Games had to be played_. 

   Wearisome days, months, years even, of tip-toeing carefully around each other, hiding behind veneering facades and flimsy excuses, went by before any substantial progress was made. The futile insisting that " _sentiment was a chemical defect found in the losing side_ " became a mantra repeated _ad nauseam_ , neither knowing who they were trying to convince; themselves or each other (not that it ever worked anyway).  
   Stubbornness - as well as a bit of pride, an unhealthy dose of wariness, and the illogical need for absolute control - drove the monumental epic that was Sherlock Holmes' and Irene Adler's version of a love story to play itself out for longer than necessary. 

   But then, one day, it happened. 

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

   It happened in a secluded homestead on some faraway, familiar land, far enough from all the troubles of the world as well as the troubling people in the world; far enough in time to let their guards down. Maybe it was the distance from London, and the separation from it's people that cleared their heads. 

   Maybe it was the way everything felt so _normal_ \- in _their_ sense of the word, of course - in that cozy house.

   The way the old red kettle whistled merrily each morning, signalling the start of a new day. The way the fraying off-white curtains filtered in English sunlight, basking them in warmth and glow as they conversed about anything and everything (somehow, the soft atmosphere in that particular room opened them up more effectively than anything else ever had).  
   The way they brushed against each other - sometimes imperceptibly, other times with the force of a playful shove - while strolling around the wood that surrounded them (and sometimes, if they were feeling _terribly_ sentimental, while taking long walks on the coast that was but half an hour's drive away). 

   Maybe it was the way the large bed in the upstairs bedroom warmed every night, without fail. 

   It could've been the way he unexpectedly started rubbing her feet after one of their lengthier walks outdoors (she had been truly surprised by that - it was something both of them thought he'd never do). Or the way his large frame would always be curled instinctively around her smaller one every morning, without fail; one arm wrapped around her waist, the other nestled underneath her body; his hand enclosing the wrist of her left arm, fingers pressed lightly above every _ba-dup-ba-dup-ba-dup_ of her pulse. It could even have been the way he softly hummed in that baritone voice of his against the top of her head; they'd often sway together in the sitting room, making up the moves as they went along to his parent's old records; and they'd keep rocking to and fro long after the music finished.

   And maybe, _just_ maybe, it was that curious looks that she'd given him; the one that appeared out of nowhere and only ever lasted but few fleeting moments. He'd seen many different gazes from her plenty times over the course of their whatever-this-was. Looks of affection, and of amusement. Looks of wonder, appreciation, annoyance, reverence, hurt, shock. Looks of _sentiment_.

   But during those few weeks at the Holmes family manor, the Woman allowed him too see the one smile he'd only ever seen from a dream within a dream; one that first appeared in a dirty terrorist cell in Karachi all those lifetimes ago.

   It was a smile that was a mix of the many forms of sentiment; but there was also something more in that particular quirk of her lips. It was the one smile whose meaning he never quite brought himself to fully believe - couldn't bring himself to fully believe - until one day he did. He had to. Otherwise, he would've only been continuing to hide from her, and from himself, and it was high-time they got past that.  
   It was a smile that seemed to assure him that everything he looked for - an equal, a challenge, someone who was just like him and could therefore accept all of him - could be (and would be) found with her. It was a smile that didn't calculate or analyse or size up or do any of those things they usually did.

   It was a smile that, though simple enough in appearance, held profound meaning for them.  
  
   " _Look_ ", it whispered, it's voice like honey, soothing to the heart, " _Look how right this all is_."  
  
   Whatever "it" was, Sherlock Holmes and Irene Adler decided that the whole thing was becoming rather tiring, rather bothersome - and truth be told they were quite worn-out from all of it. They acknowledged that if they didn't stop and just give in already to the one thing they both wanted, a lifetime would pass them by, wasted in every sense of the word. 

   So they gave in. And, oh, how _thoroughly satisfying_ it was to give in. 

   Years of cautiousness, of guarded hearts that deflected any and all things, of second-guessing and doubting, years of isolation simply dissolved; making room for sentiment. Funnily enough, they discovered that the cerebral and the sentimental could, in fact, coexist. And, in an even funnier twist of events, they discovered that they'd been living that exact lifestyle the whole time - just with the added presence of denial.  
In the end, all it had taken them was a ridiculous amount of time, but what else could one have expected from two people so remarkably out-of-this-world?

   And besides, ' _the course of true love ne'er did run smooth_ '.

   The good doctor Watson would later remark that all it took was Jim Moriarty, the better part of half a decade of emotional purgatory, and one long introspective journey to finally knock some sense into his best friend and his " _no-she's-not-my-girlfriend-she's-The-Woman-do-keep-up-John_ ". 

**Author's Note:**

> That was a lil longer than expected hehehe. If you've read this far, thanks a bunch :) 
> 
> There'll be more later.


End file.
